Wednesday, November 26, 2008

I was born in an area of Queens that lies close to both JFK, and La Guardia airports, so perhaps that is why travel has always fascinated me. Planes, trains, buses, vans, station wagons, and SUVs have carried me all across this country and beyond – mostly on someone else’s dime.

For most of my 20’s and 30’s, I was on some tour or the other, dancing in musicals in towns whose names I don’t remember. And my work as a clown has allowed me to see Europe with a red nose in my back pack. But the journeys my storytelling has taken me on, are truly unique.

While I have gone as far away as Middle America to tell my tales, the travel that I speak of is much more local – namely, New York City, and the state of New Jersey. Spending time in the different neighborhoods of these two locations is like a tour of the world.

In one week, I have visited a section of the Bronx where everything from the people, to the freshly made bread in the corner bakery, was authentically Italian, and then been in a tiny library in New Jersey close enough to the ocean that the streets are dusted with sand. I travel to communities where Cinco De Mayo is a huge fiesta, and to areas where every house celebrates Passover. To get to the school, library, museum, or event where I am to perform, I walk by penthouses, and the projects; Bloomingdales, and One Dollar stores. Just as I bring the world to my audiences through the tales I tell – the world is brought to me by the myriad of cultures, religions, economic groups, and races I am honored to perform for.

The fact that every culture has the same type of tales – the trickster tale, and the porquoi story, among others – constantly reminds me that certain thoughts, feelings, and experiences are universal. The same holds true for my “travels” around the NYC/NJ area. It doesn’t matter if the kids are fans of Hannah Montana, or Chris Brown; if they drive a tractor, or ride a bike. The smiles are the same, the laughter is identical, and the connection is just as real in Seaside Heights, as it is in Harlem.

Many more learned people than I have written about the importance of travel, and I agree whole heartedly. Of course, travel exposes us to worlds and peoples that may differ from ourselves greatly. But, more than that, it shows us how very much alike we are. How there really is a brotherhood, and sisterhood of mankind!

Experiencing this a time zone, or three, away is wonderful, but I am grateful, and happy, that I don’t always have to go that far to see the world. Thanks to the crazy quilt of humanity that exists within a few hours of my apartment, I can travel the world, without ever really leaving home!

One day, a prophet, a magical seer of the future, came upon a wedding feast. Outside this party stood the father of the bride. Inviting all within earshot, the man continually cried out, “All are welcome!”

Seeking to test the man, the prophet went home, and put on the robes of a beggar. “May I come in?” He asked the father of the bride, as he approached.

“A beggar such as you is not welcome here,” was the response.

A short time later, the prophet returned to the wedding again – this time dressed in the robes of a king. No one recognized him from his first visit, and he was immediately escorted in, and sat in a place of honor. But when he was offered some of the wedding dinner to eat, the prophet put the food on his glorious robes, and poured the wine down his shirt.

“Why do you do this?” Demanded the father of the bride.

“It is simple,” replied the prophet. “I am feeding the one whom you invited to your feast.”

“Nonsense! I invited you, and you wasted my fine meal!”

“You are wrong, sir,” the prophet said, with a smile. “You see, earlier today, I came here dressed as a beggar, and you turned me away. But when I came back wearing the robes of royalty – you treated me with distinction. And since I am the same man, it would seem that who you invited here today, wasn’t me, at all, it was my clothes. For you said that all were welcome – but you did not truly mean it.”

Normally, I avoid telling tales I’ve hear someone else tell. For some reason, the moment I hear a story come from a fellow tellers lips – it becomes their sole property, in my mind, and I cannot bring myself to utter it. But this story was my different.

The theme of being judged by ones appearances is one that has run throughout my life. As a person of color, and as a woman, assumptions have been made about me by other people long before they actually made my acquaintance. Also, for some reason, I don’t often look like what some people think of as a storyteller either – on more than several occasions people have looked at me quizzically saying, “YOU’RE the storyteller????????” And sadly, one of the few truisms of life, is that EVERYONE, at some time or another, has been judged solely on what they look like. This story then, is universal, and I have seen it work for seniors, the homeless, and one particular group, I think is often misjudged – teenagers.

Who hasn’t seen a group of high schoolers enter a store, and then watched the owners take one look at them, and brace themselves for “trouble”. On the subway, I routinely see people shift away from teen agers if their voices rise above the normal polite train murmur. Time and time again, when I share this tale with a class of 14 – 17 year olds, their hands shoot up when I ask the question, “Have you ever been judged by what you look like?”

They recount instances of being judged by strangers, their peers, and their families, and though they often shrug it off in a show of youthful bravado – it’s clear to me, that they have been hurt by it. But even though I have often been “the judged”, I am not, as I was recently reminded, above being “the judge”. This past month, I was given the task of “modeling” my performance style for a high school public speaking class that was doing a unit on folktales. I was also to coach them in preparation of their upcoming storytelling performances.

As I walked up the steps of this sprawling, inner city school, I felt my stomach tightened. The scene is one I have taken in far more than once – metal detectors at the entrance, and security guards scanning for any whiff of trouble. “Here was go,” I thought, mentally preparing myself for a group of surly, rude teens, that didn’t give a D*** about storytelling or me, and would probably let me know it BIG TIME. “Use a lot of humor, “ my brain whispered. “Get them to laugh at you. And if that fails – it’s only three visits – how bad could it be.”

My first clue that I was wrong, came when one of the football players in the class – well over 6’3” and 200 lbs, walked by me and said, “You’re the storyteller, huh? That’s cool.”

From the very first word out of my mouth, these students were attentive, and respectful. The questions they asked made it clear that they were eager to learn anything I was willing to share with them. The faces I had thought would look at me with scowls, gazed at me with genuine interest. And that was before they began to tell stories themselves.

As each student rose, and made their way to the front of the classroom, I was blown away time and time again by the level of concentration, commitment, and talent these young men and women brought to their storytelling.

Just as I had been judged by others as not looking like a storyteller, I had done the same thing to these gifted students. With their oversized hoodies and baggy jeans, they might not look like the storytellers one sees at libraries, schools, and festivals – but it doesn’t mean that they aren’t ones. They are a reminder that stories, and their tellers, come in all different packages. For just like the father of the bride in that Jewish folktale, stories say, “ALL are welcome.” The difference is, tales really mean it.

Friday, October 10, 2008

NO ONE IS GOOD ENOUGH TO COMPETE WITH FOOD(and other really true things about birthday parties)

While I am generally not one to “toot my own horn, I have been known to quite easily tell anyone that I think I am brave. I’m unafraid of the new, the unfamiliar beckons me, and “feel the fear, but do it anyway” is a favorite mantra of mine. But, just like Superman collapses in the presence of kryptonite, there is a question that makes me shiver – “Do you do birthday parties?” AWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!!!!!

It’s sort of ironic that I, who make a HUGE deal every December 23rd (the proximity of my birthday to a certain holiday probably tells you why I do – one too many “this is your combination Christmas/Birthday present” packages sent me over the edge LONG ago!!), would be cowed by this type of celebration. But, I am, and I’ll tell you why.

At schools, libraries, museums, and festivals, there is an expectation, a code, if you will, about how a performance should proceed, and how an audience should (for lack of a better word) behave. When I stand in front of a group of children in a school – I’m a treat! I’m the “we’re missing math class cherry on the top of a sundae”. The students are on their best behaviors, because, if they’re not, one of the twenty or so teachers in the assembly hall, will yank them out of their seats, and back to fractions and multiplication (THANK YOU, TEACHERS!!!!). Also, I am loud enough, and rowdy enough, and involve them enough, to be a bit of anarchy in a structured school day. I still have to have my A-game to keep their attention, but at least the odds are stacked in my favor!! The same is true in libraries – everybody knows they are entering the land of “SSSSH!!!!!!!!!!!!” – so the fact that for one hour, they can laugh, stomp, and clap loudly, feels quite decadent, and is worth focusing solely on. And storytelling festivals?? PLEASE – that’s an all expenses paid vacation in the locale of your choice!! The entire infrastructure is designed to highlight the main event – the telling of tales. Birthday parties, however, are a whole different beast (and I don’t choose that word for nothing).

Let’s just examine some of the sights, sounds, and events at an average party, shall we?SUGAR!!!!!! And lots of it – cakes, cookies, cupcakes, and candy!!! What more do I need to say.Those tootie noise maker things that uncoil like brightly colored snakes, and sound like an angry goose.

Decorations – piñatas, pointy birthday hats (that nobody really wears), and assorted table doo-dads, that can also serve as projectiles.Music – I love you, Hannah Montana, and High School Musical – really, I do! But not while I’m working!!!

PRESENTS!!!! Webkinz, American Girl Dolls, computer games, and anything else that comes in a big shiney box!! Try being more interesting than that!!!

SEE WHY I’M SCARED???????????????????????????????????? But, because I believe in the motto that has sold a gazillion sneakers – JUST DO IT (and, frankly, because a freelance storyteller is really not in a position to be picky about work, and still be able to feed her Diet Peach Snapple habit), I preserve. I do the OCCASIONAL birthday party – with the following strictly enforced rules.

RULE #1: NO ONE IS GOOD ENOUGH TO COMPETE WITH FOOD. The storyteller must be given an area free of any assorted birthday distractions. This includes, but is not limited to: balloons, those crepe paper table decoration things, pin the tail on the donkey, and, most especially FOOD. Because NO ONE, no one, and I do mean, no one, is good enough to compete with food. Let me break it down for you this way: Me: an average swimmer. A Chocolate Cupcake: Michael Phelps at the Olympics. Guess who’s gonna win???

RULE #: SIZE DOES MATTER. The number of children at said party must not exceed 15. Now, a lot of storytellers don’t like to do school assemblies – meaning big groups of children – sometimes up to 200 or so. I do. Coming from a musical theatre background, that size audience seems very natural to me. A school auditorium packed full of students, and TEACHERS is a controlled environment (remember the whole “I’m saving them from math class thing?) I have, literally, seen teachers fly down the aisle, and scoop up a kid from their seat so fast, they left behind a trail of dust. At a party, though, a large group can quickly become a mob. Gone are the teachers, and the convention of having to be “good”. And may I say, I TOTALLY UNDERSTAND!!! Parties are for play, and a certain amount of wildness!! But, I am all of 5’2”, and oh, so easy to pick up, and toss. I might be able to outrun 15 kids, if things get ugly – but 20 or 30??? No way!!!

RULE #3: THOSE UNDER 5 YEARS OLD, WILL BE CARDED. The week after my next door neighbor gave birth, she came to me, precious bundle in her arms, saying, “You’ll have to tell stories for his christening party – he’ll like that!” HUH?? I looked at her for a good long while, and then, trying not to sound as amazed as I was, said, “But he doesn’t know any words.” Now, I hope I don’t sound mean about this, but – infants are miracles, toddlers remind me of what discovery and play are all about. I LOVE both age groups – but they are TOO YOUNG for storytelling!! There are all sorts of “storytelling like “ things for that age group – storytimes at libraries, with those fun cardboard books (which are also excellent for teething!), circle time Mommy and Me fun – in everything from yoga to music – but actual real storytelling, I think, really can’t be done until a child is in the Pre-K age range. Particularly in a group. It is this humble storytellers opinion, that only then, does a child know enough words, and most importantly, have the attention span to last for even 20 minutes of storytelling. Now, I am extremely animated and playful, and I can certainly keep a two year old entertained, but would it be storytelling?? No!

RULE #4: LEAVE THEM WANTING MORE. At other venues, most of my performances are somewhere between 45 minutes and an hour. Not at a party. As I said before, parties are for PLAY and FUN!!! And while I hope to add to that, I don’t want to be, and shouldn’t be all there is to the celebration. A half hour is long enough to entertain my audience, and still leave time for that awesome birthday cake (which, of course, was hidden during my performance, because of rule #1!!)

And so, with these four rules, I’ve been able to leave birthday parties unscarred physically and emotionally, and with my head held high. Why just last week, I performed at one where the parents eagerly complied to my rules. In fact, they had two teenagers, who lived up the street, and sometimes babysat for the kids, helping out. They were a great audience, except one little girl, who was soooooooooooo taken with the teenager, she paid very little attention to me. HMMM…maybe it’s time for RULE #5?????

Sunday, September 7, 2008

Just a few weeks ago, I had the honor, the privilege, the “everything else that makes one feel warm, fuzzy, and thrilled” to perform at the National Storytelling Network’s Conference, in Gatlinburg, Tennessee. Making it all the more exciting was that I had been nominated by my fellow New Jersey Storytellers, and then selected over numerous other performers, from various other states, to represent the entire Mid-Atlantic Region.

WOW!!!!!!

This was the first national conference I had ever attended, much less performed at, so the experience was a tremendously rich one for me. So much so, that even though I knew I would write about it, I didn’t know which part of that weekend to talk about.

My actual performance was a highlight, of course. I got to stand on a stage in front of A LOT of people – many of whom are well known storytellers – and tell a tale that moves me in a way few others do (if you want to know more about that story, go to the “notes from the field” called “A Story About a Story”) I also got to meet people whose work I’ve known for years, through their books, CDs, and appearances at large national festivals throughout the country. I heard fellow professional tellers talk about their work – the real everyday joys, and pains in the booties, that come with this wacky profession called storytelling. And, in another case of science discovering what the wise folk of old always knew, I learned how stories actually transmit information to the brain far better than any power point presentation ever would. I saw tellers of all different ages, shapes, colors, and styles. I renewed friendships, and made some new ones. And the towns of Gatlinburg, and it’s neighbor, Pigeon Forge are worthy of several essays each (one word about Pigeon Forge – DOLLYWOOD!!!!!!).

So what to write about? Unfortunately, I got my answer through the one thing that none of us will ever be able to avoid – death.

The night after the Regional Concert, which I performed in, was the National Conference – or as I thought of it: “The Big Guns on Parade”. The line up for this was a “Who’s Who” of storytelling – people who had toured the festival circuit for years, who had loyal followings, and could pack theatres. Among them was a name I had heard of, but had never seen tell – Doc McConnell.

Doc started off that evening with what, I was soon to learn, was a crowd favorite, about aspects of running, or more specially, non-running. As one who spends a great deal of her time happily sprinting to nowhere on a treadmill, I laughed as I recognized myself in the people Doc parodied. But as wonderful as the tale was – and it was superb – what left the deepest impression on me was the reception Doc received as he stepped on, then off the stage. Making his was to the stool, and microphone that awaited him, the audience stood on its feel, and let off a cheer that was both warm embrace, and groupie howl, all at the same time. As he shared his thoughts about his “Non-Run Run”, I could see torsos eagerly pitched forward, faces illuminated with smiles, and lips moving as they recited some of their favorite lines, right along with Doc. The audience adored him, and he adored them right back. Now, I’ve had the AMAZING opportunity to see two of my personal idols, Tina Turner and Bette Midler, perform live, and let me tell you here and now, Doc McConnell worked that audience every bit as well as those divas vamped a concert hall. The love the crowd felt for that man was palpable, and that, above everything else that weekend, was what I will always remember.

We live in a society that tends to honor some pretty weird stuff. The fact that I am well acquainted with the status of Britney Spear’s child custody arrangements, simply by glancing at a magazine rack while paying for my Diet Peach Snapple, tells you A LOT, about who gets glorified in this country. So, sitting there watching this group of people – storytellers, and story listeners pay homage to Doc, and to the oral tradition, moved me. It made me proud to sit amongst these folks who saw the specialness of storytelling and storytellers. Was it Groucho Marx who famously said that he’d never want to be part of a group what would have him as a member? Well, Groucho, in this case I disagree with you 1000000000000000000%. In that moment – watching what would be Doc’s final appearance on the National Storytelling Conference stage, I was floored to be part of this group of people that cold take in, and appreciate the ART that is storytelling, and the ARTISIT that great storytellers like Doc are. An art that can look so very simple, that a lot of folks say, “What’s the big deal? Where’s the sets? The costumes? The car crashes?” to be amongst people who truly honor their own – even when the rest of the world would probably pay no heed to an elderly man on a stool, talking into a mike – made me proud.

I didn’t get to meet Doc after the show, as I left I saw he was swarmed by admirers. Thoughts of his performance, and the audience reaction drifted through my head every now and again during the almost 12 hour drive home the next day – but then it all shifted to the “been there, done that” file in my mind. But then, a few weeks later, I go the news that Doc had died. Like warm shower water pouring over me, the memory of the Conference came back, as did the pride I felt that night.

So here’s to Doc McConnell, and all the souls who appreciate him, and love tales, and their tellers: You are a special, beautiful people, and I am honored to be one of you!!!!

Monday, July 21, 2008

I love fruit!Just adore it!Sometimes I think instead of calling myself a vegetarian, I should be labeled a fruitatrian.Green apples – tart and crisp - are what I can be seen eating most of the year.But summertime brings my very favorite of nature’s sweet treats – peaches, plums, blueberries, and strawberries.

There is something about eating these juicy yummies that scream, “Slow down!Enjoy!Feel the juice run down your face, and between your fingers!”And just the other day, as I was savoring a bowl of mammoth sized strawberries (I always wonder if I should worry when they’re that big), I was reminded of two folktales where these succulent red berries taught huge life lessons.

The first tale is one that is probably familiar to anyone who has studied Buddhist, or certain yogic meditation techniques.A woman finds herself in the jungle running from tigers.She goes as fast as her feet will carry her, until finally she finds herself at a cliff that has a long vine hanging from it.Hoping to climb down to the valley below, she begins to descend, only to see that there are tigers below her as well.As both sets of tigers roar, she notices that there is a tiny, but persistent mouse gnawing on the vine.But then her eyes spy a small patch of bright, plump strawberries.She picks one, pops it in her mouth, and thoroughly enjoys it’s deliciousness.

I love this story, for if ever there was an example of “being here now” and “enjoying the present moment”, this is it.Faced with almost certain death, no matter where she turns, this woman is able to see the beauty that is in front of her, and instead of bemoaning what her fate may be, she relishes in the sweetness of that instant, by eating a strawberry.

How I wish I could say that I lived like that – not worried about the “tigers” I left behind, or the ones that may await me.To often the chewing that I do is not on a piece of fruit, but on a conversation – real or imaged - or a moment, probably long forgotten by everyone but me.

The second story is a Native American tale about a married couple who have a fight.The wife storms out of their home, enraged.After a few minutes, the husband realized he must apologize to his wife, and takes off after her, only to find that she is so far ahead of him, he can’t catch her.The Sun, whom the husband asks for help, shines down on the earth where the woman is walking, and a patch of blueberries appear.The wife ignores them, and continues her angry march.Next, the sun conjures up blackberries.But, still the wife walks on.It is only after the Sun creates a brand new fruit – strawberries, that the wife stops.As she eats the berries, her anger fades, and the couple reunites.Once again, strawberries save the day.

Now, I know as well as anyone, life isn’t always like the folktales I tell.Sometimes – most times – it’s hard not to let the “tigers’ consume you with worry, and it can be all too easy to walk away from someone who loves you, because you’re pissed off.But maybe, during this season where strawberries are abundant, and fresh, we can use them to remind us that life is so very, very sweet – and all we have to do is slow down long enough to see it.

Monday, June 16, 2008

I will freely and willingly admit that when it comes to stories, I like ‘em short, fast, and funny - the type of tale that keeps a smile on one’s face, and a giggle on one’s tongue.Big, bright, musical comedy type affairs – that, as they say, is how I roll.So it makes prefect comic sense that a story containing none of the things I am normally drawn to, has given me more deep, rich, meaningful gifts than any of my “Ha-Ha” tales combined.

The tale of “The Spirit of the Tree” first came into my life when I was asked to tell stories at a wedding.A teacher who used storytelling in her classroom, and appreciated the transformative nature of folktales, contacted me through a friend of a friend.My first response was, “Wow!Cool idea!Of course I’ll perform for you on THE MOST IMPORTANT DAY OF YOUR LIFE!”My second thought was, “AAAAAH!!!!!!!!!!Me??What will I tell??What will I wear??”

I knew short, fast, and funny was NOT going to cut it – especially after meeting Jennifer and Richard.You know all those catch phrases like “made for each other” and “two peas in a pod”?That was them.She had those kinds of looks that screamed, “I’m a good doer - as beautiful on the inside, as I am on the outside!”And he had that “the guy who would always have your back” face.No wonder they fell in love with each other – I was smitten with them both.

I listened intently as they told me about their lives, their likes, and their families.I took more notes than someone studying for the Bar Exam.The part that really got to me, was the fact that both of them had just lost grandparents, who were very dear to them.“Their spirits,” they told me, “are still with us.”

To find the prefect tale for them, I unleashed my research loving side, and hit the books – HARD.Using my personal folktale collection (which is WAY larger than someone who lives in a one bedroom apartment, with a very tolerant husband, should be allowed to have), and the resources of the New York City, and Jersey City Library systems, I searched for the prefect story for Jennifer and Richard.

I found lots of love stories, lots of deceased parent/grandparent stories, lots of love stories about people who had deceased parents/grandparents.Most were beautiful, a lot were moving, a couple were almost short, fast and funny, but none, to quote good old Goldilocks, was “just right”.But we all know how those tales go, “They looked, and looked, and just when they were about to give up – THERE IT WAS!!”And don’t you know, that’s exactly what happened.

In a book I had owned for several years, but hadn’t looked at for a long time, I found “The Spirit of the Tree”.I don’t know why I didn’t discount it immediately, because at face value, it looked like a dozen other stories I had already rejected.It is one of the hundreds of Cinderella variants – young girl, dead mother, step mom’s a meanie- but what grabbed me is how the spirit of the girl’s mother, and not a handsome prince, is really who guides her to a “happily ever after”.Yes, she falls in love (with a hunter, not royalty), but only as a result of her mother’s guidance, and promise that, “I will always be there for you, I will always care for you.”Tears came to my eyes when I read it, and I realized it was the prefect tale not just for Jennifer and Richard, but for me, as well.

The mother’s promise, and love in that story, reminded me of the powerful blessing my late mother-in-law had bestowed on all of her children.I will gladly tell anyone who listens, that I married an amazing man – compassionate, intelligent, and loving beyond belief.His innate goodness, and that of his brother, and sisters, is a living testament to their mother, whose face always shone with pleasure and delight at the site of one of her children.Her death was, unfortunately, a long, drawn out affair, but because my husband and his siblings each got a very real chance to say good-bye, I feel like they were all encased forever in their mother’s love.This story, then, was a chance to honor the woman who had given birth to my greatest gift.

There were a lot of tears when I told “The Spirit of the Tree” at Jennifer and Richard’s wedding – but I had never felt so joyous.While I LOVE, and I mean LOVE my work with children, this was an opportunity to help seal a bond of love between two people who had already weathered loss together.That I was able to contribute, in even a small way, to their path of marriage was an honor I will always cherish, along with the loving memory of my mother-in-law.

Wanting this tale to remain a tribute to that happy couple, and to my husband’s mom, I sort of put it to bed.I didn’t often have the occasion to tell such an “adult” story anyway, so it was easy to let it slip to the bottom of my “play list”.I pulled it out occasionally, and once recorded it, along with two other tales, for the Cotsen Children’s Library at PrincetonUniversity.

Fast forward a few years.I was EXTREMELY flattered, honored, and floored to be nominated, this spring, by my fellow New Jersey storytellers, to perform at a Regional Concert as part of the upcoming National Storytelling Network’s Conference.If selected, I would be representing not just New Jersey, but the entire Mid-Atlantic region!The judging committee would need a tape or CD of my work, and even though I didn’t think I had a shot of making the cut, I popped the CD I had from the Cotsen Library in the mail.

“CONGRATULATIONS!!!” the email, that arrived some time later declared.“You’ve been selected to tell your story, “Tangiers Cinderella” at the NSN Conference on August 9th, 2008!!”Yeah!Yeah!!HUH??“Tangiers Cinderella”?I’d never even heard of that story, much less told it.Chalking it up to a “miss-dial”, I sent a reply saying, “Sorry, wrong storyteller.”But another email quickly came back saying, “Maybe we got the name of the tale wrong, but not the name of the teller.We want YOU, and the third story on your CD.”

Third story?To my recollection, on the Costen Library CD was “Mommie Mouse”, a story for toddlers, “The Clever Turtle”, for the grade schoolers, and finally, “The Knee High Man” for all ages.I was sure of it.Positive of it.Certain – or was I?It had been soooooo long since I’d recorded that CD, and I had never listened to it.Could I actually have forgotten what I had told?I rose from my computer desk, and grabbed the CD.I listened as my own voice announced, “Mommie Mouse” – just as I knew it would.Jumping to the next track, the words “The Clever Turtle” sang out, again, in my voice, and, again, just as I had expected.But just as I was beginning to feel a little irritated at this “judging committee” – I mean, how could they raise my hopes up, and then mistake me for someone else – the words “The Spirit of the Tree” cut through my indignant silence.OOPS!!!!

I’d love to say, “and in a flood of memories, it all came back to me, and I laughed at the ironies of fate”.But actually, I felt pretty stupid, and wanted to kick myself for almost blowing a BIG opportunity.

So, on August 9th, at the National Storytelling Network’s Annual Conference, I will tell a story that is unlike any other in my repertoire - a tale that came to me through a loving couple I didn’t really know, and one that binds me, forever, to my husband’s family.I will happily, proudly, and probably tearfully perform “The Spirit of the Tree”.

Monday, May 5, 2008

“Run and run, as fast as you can, you can’t catch me, I’m the Gingerbread Man!!”Those words, and the story that they come from, are familiar to a great many people.But what isn’t as well known, is that “The Gingerbread Man” is a type of story called a chain tale.In these simplest of stories, there is a brief opening sequence that, once set, keeps repeating – adding on additional characters like links on a chain.

The Gingerbread Man runs away from the Old Woman who created him, then escapes from a series of animals who each ask the exact same question (can I eat you?), and each receive the exact same reply (you can’t catch me, I’m the Gingerbread Man).The “chain” finally ends with the fox, who makes a meal out of the sprinting cookie.

I love telling this kind of story!The repetition of the situations makes for a delicious rhythm that small children adore;and, as the “chain” grows longer, there is a natural escalation that brings the excitement level to a fever pitch.Kids love that they can begin to predict what the various characters will do or say, and quite often, these stories give me a chance to do something I love – to me unabashedly physically silly!!

But as much as I cherish these stories for these qualities, this month I found yet another reason to love them.I realized that as a storyteller, I was dab smack in the middle of a real life chain tale.I discovered that I am a link in a very long and hopefully growing chain.

About twelve years ago, following my relentless creativity seeking nose, I attended a storytelling performance at the newly opened New Victory Theatre on 42nd Street.This wonderful theatre’s mission is to provide quality, affordable theatrical events for family audiences (and they do – brilliantly.If you’ve never gone there – go immediately, and check out their website).I had never really seen a storyteller, and knew nothing about the oral tradition, but I said, as I always say, “Hey, it it’s an art form, I’ve got to check it out!”

Well, all I’ve got to say about what I experienced is – Wow!No, that’s wrong, I mean WOW!!!!Onto that stage walked Carmen Deedy, a Cuban American storyteller from Atlanta.She told an hour’s length story called, “The Peanut Man”, and as I sat there awestruck, I remembered the words of Bette Midler, one of my personal heroes.I read once, that the Divine Miss M said that when she saw Janis Joplin onstage she was blown away by her talent, of course, but also, that something inside her said, “I can do that.”

And that is what I heard, after I stopped clapping and cheering for Carmen, that is.I knew I had found IT.The way I could use my dancing, acting, clowning, energy, love of imaginative “out of the box” theatre.I had stumbled onto a wealth of tales that could take me around the world without me ever packing a single bag.I wanted to do to an audience, what Carmen Deedy had done to me – move them, and without fancy sets, lights, or costumes.And in that instant, I reached up and grabbed on to the storytelling “chain”.Carmen Deedy is my link to the enormous line of storytellers who have held audiences captive with their tales for years.

Now, I hadn’t really thought of things that way until this month, when, for the first time in twelve years or so, I saw Carmen perform again.Prior to her show, I told EVERYONE I knew about her affect on me, and that she was the reason I became a storyteller.

I was both nervous, and excited to see her perform.Suppose she wasn’t as amazing as I remembered?What if, when I went up to speak with her, she was a DIVA?Well, she was (as great as I remembered) and she wasn’t (a DIVA).I felt a bit like a groupie finally getting to go backstage with THE BAND!!!I told her of how she had inspired me, and how I was grateful to have a chance to tell her what seeing her had led me to – in short, I thanked her for being the link that had “hooked” me.And as I stood there, grinning like the proverbial kid in the candy shop, a teacher/storyteller I know, Ken Karnas came up to both Carmen and I.

“I wasn’t originally planning on coming today,” Ken said.“But from the way Julie talked about you, I just knew I had to see you.”

Now, at this point, I’d have to say that I was at a pretty high level of happy – what with actually meeting Carmen (who had grown rather mythical in my mind), and having other people I know get turned on to her, but then Ken said something that I may never forget.“Julie’s the first person I ever saw really tell a story – I mean REALLY tell it!!”

I looked at him, and I thought of the wonderful stories I had heard him tell at the New Jersey Storytelling Festival last summer, when we shared a time slot.I felt a sense of pride that teachers must be oh, so familiar with, and I realized that I was the “chain” that Ken had “hooked” onto.Standing between Carmen and Ken, is when I realized that I was living a chain tale that I was part of something that was at once ancient, and ongoing.I am, like every storyteller before me, and hopefully all the storytellers that are to come - a link in a very long, long chain.

Monday, March 31, 2008

Up until the last year or so, there was a tabloid called, “Weekly World News”.It was the type of paper that made the “The National Enquirer” look like a Tolstoy novel.Front cover news was frequently the exploits of Bat Boy – who was, of course, half man, half bat.Giant babies, tap dancing aliens, and a host of other unbelievable events graced it’s black and white pages.Waiting in the check out line at the Pathmark, I would flip through this “fine” publication, giggling and thinking, “How do they come up with this stuff?”

Oh, how I wish “Weekly World News” still existed – because, boy, do I ever have a story for them!A scoop more stupefyingly unbelievable than the capture and imprisonment of Bat Boy: Julie Pasqual and her sister, Valerie, go to a storytelling performance – TOGETHER!AMAZING!!!!

Now, you may think a visit from our brothers and sisters from the red planet to be an event unlikely to happen – but let me assure you, that next to what happened this month with my sister and I, having an alien over for lunch, is down right ordinary.

My family is large, especially for NYC standards.Six kids: three boys, three girls, with yours truly bringing up the rear.My mother pumped us out at fairly regular intervals, but even still, there is a considerable age gap between both my sisters (kids #1 and #2) and me.One of my few baby pictures show my two sisters, Pat (#1) and Valerie (#2) at ages twelve and ten, holding me with more than just a suggestion of disgust on their faces.One can almost see their thoughts floating above their heads in a cartoon bubble, “Oh God!!!Another one we have to look after!”

Because of the years between us, my sister, Pat, was off to grad school in Michigan before I was even in high school, and we haven’t lived in the same city since I was eleven or so.Valerie, though, was around more, and was, to her younger sister, “THE GLAMOROUS ONE”.Thin, pretty, and with an interest in shopping, makeup, and Cosmo, she made my friends gawk and say, “Oooh!”She had lots of boyfriends - frequently at the same time - and my youngest brother and I would often creep to the top of the stairs to hear her try to talk my mother out of going ballistic when she came in late.

But something seemed to happen as I entered my teen years, and she her twenties.She buckled down in college, and became a teacher.I fell in love with the thing that would define the rest of my life- dance, theatre, and performing.I won’t go into the MANY and EPIC battles I had with my parents over my choosing an arts high school over a Catholic School, or my electing to begin touring in musical theatre shows instead of going to college, or my moving out of my parent’s house, when they wanted me to stay at home.Let’s just say, a suomo wrestler in a tutu would have been prettier, and easier to watch.

Keeping my distance from my parents, though, came with an unforeseen side effect – loosing contact with my siblings as well.They were already older, so soon they were fully engrossed in their adult lives, as I was in mine.During this time, Valerie became a respected teacher, a wife, a mother, an author, and someone I didn’t know at all.Christmases, and the occasional Easter or Thanksgiving, was the extent of our communication.

That’s mostly likely how things would have remained, had my sister and her family not experienced a crisis.Maybe there is something to that “blood is thicker than water” stuff, because during this sad time, we began to talk.At first it was just about the situation at hand, and then it began to be about our parents, our family, and our lives.For the first time since I was about thirteen years old, I was actually telling someone in my family about myself.I was letting my sister in.

And this is where storytelling comes in.As I mentioned, my sister is a teacher, first grade to be exact.You’d think that with the amount of time I spend performing in schools, I would have visited Valerie’s class for a tale or two.Nope.I was too curled up in my self protective bunker to even entertain the idea.But one Christmas, two years ago, it came to me.Why not give my sister the thing that I had held back from every member of my family for decades - why not give her Me – well, for a forty five minute show, that is.

My performance, and our subsequent conversations about storytelling, gave my sister and I some common ground.I must admit, it was nice to know that someone who shared my DNA actually understood what the heck I did for a living.I came to learn that my sister had seen, and adored, the storyteller, Heather Forest, who’s books I owned, but had never seen perform.Imagine talking “shop” to a relative – MIND BLOWING!!!!!

When I saw that HeatherForest would be performing at the Provincetown Playhouse Storytelling Series (a great place to see some top shelf tellers, by the way) I marked it on my calendar, and I called my sister.Only my husband knows how huge a step that was for me.To freely, and willingly invite a family member into a part of my life that I hold extremely dear, namely storytelling, was previously a risk I wouldn’t have dared to take.But now, with the connection that storytelling had helped to forge, it felt like the only thing to do.

HeatherForest was wonderful, of course, and the audience, which was a mix of all ages of story lovers, was great to see.But the real gift that day, was sitting besides my sister.Not because I had to, but because I wanted to.

I have often said that I began my storytelling career as a way to combine all my artistic skills, work for myself, and have more control over my schedule, as well as my creative fate.I have gotten all that, and much, much more from the smiles, laughter of my audiences, and the deep lessons in some of the tales I tell.But, just this month, I do believe I got the best gift storytelling has yet to give me – a relationship with my sister.

Julie's Bio

Julie Pasqual is a storyteller who's performances are infused with physicality and movement from her dance training, comic moments from her work in clowning, a deep love of language from her work as an actress, and a love of world cultures and folktales born from her travels to (so far) 49 of the 50 states, and 12 countries. Using all of her performance skills, and an ever present spirit of playfulness, Julie brings stories to audiences from pre-schoolers to prisoners, and everyone in between in single shows, assemblies, workshops, and residencies. Schools, libraries, festivals, museums, group homes, shelters, detention centers, and even weddings, have been some of her venues. When not telling tales, she can be found performing for Healthy Humor, a program designed to bring joy and fun to hospitalized children and their families, teaching the ancient practice of yoga at several studios, and domestic abuse shelters, and travelling to international schools around the globe as a teaching artist for ISTA (International School Theatre Alliance, as well as sweating as much as she can at her local gym!!!

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Upcoming Performances

Many of my “tellings” are private performances for schools, or part of ongoing residencies I have. The following are some venues where the general public can see me. Hope to see you there!!FEBRUARY 2017:2/4/17: Hempstead Library, NY 2PM2/4/17: Battery Park City, NYC 4:30PM2/25/17: Rahway Library, NJ 2PMAPRIL 2017:4/29/17: CT Storytelling Festival, New London, CT, 9AM, 1:30, 7:30!!MAY 2017:Manasquan Library, NJ 3:15PM

SO, WHERE'S JULIE WHEN SHE'S NOT TELLING TALES??

Well, she might be...performing in hospitals for children and their families for Healthy Humor a program designed to bringing humor and joy to the pediatric patients, or she might be...teaching yoga at Hudson Yoga Project in Hoboken, NJ, Yogamaya, The Bhakti Center, or at homeless and women's shelters in NYC. Or she might be...stilt walking, clowning, or dancing at various events. Or she might be travelling as a teaching artist for ISTA (International School Theatre Alliance)

Julie Live!

What They're Saying about Julie!

Julie Pasqual brings stories to LIFE. She is a storyteller of the first magnitude, with a collection of tales from all over the world. If you have the mistaken impression that children are bored by traditional storytelling, Julie will, with one beat of a drum, dance of her feet, or participatory shout from the audience, dispel your reservations. Julie is a true griot, a tribal teller who carries stories forward so that current generation and generations to come can learn the stories and the art of the teller. I have never had Julie at the library when the audience didn't leave smiling from ear to ear and repeating the rhythms and stories that she has taught them.

From Lisa Herskowitz, Youth Services Librarian, East Northport, Public Library.

"Julie Pasqual is one of the best storytellers we have hosted at our library. Julie is a whirlwind of positive energy who knows how to work a room filled with children of varied ages as well as adults. Her performance, which was the perfect blend of humor, physicality, and poignancy, held everyone's attention. Everyone walked out with a smile! I look forward to inviting Julie back in the near future."

To whom it may concern,

Julie Pasqual is a truly amazing performer! From the minute she steps on stage – even if the stage is a respect commanding school chapel or a huge, undecorated school gym – she holds the audience spellbound. Because Dream On Productions has presented more than 40 performances in Argentina by this excellent storyteller, I was treated to a wide variety of tales. My favorite one is “Unana,” a traditional folktale where the mother goes after an elephant who ate her children, and has to be swallowed along with them in order to rescue them. I also love the story of Death and her godson, a story told in cultures throughout the world. Her stories, her voices, her facial expressions, her stage presence make her performances unforgettable.

The fact that she uses the whole of her body to convey emotions and images that get the idea across makes her unique among the excellent performers we normally schedule, and perfect for our audiences of ESL learners.

Julie is furthermore a joy to work with and makes the entire experience not only a delight for the audience but also for the tour organizers. Just to mention a couple of examples, she was most co-operative trying to resolve an issue with a flight schedule change by the airline, and very patient signing autographs for long lines of school children.

In addition to my own opinion expressed above, we have received much feedback thanking Dream On and Julie, full of positive comments from teachers and children. As director of Dream On Productions, I heartily recommend her storytelling skills and professionalism.